The stoic prince marvels
At his many glamorous princesses
All lined in a row, eyeing each other
Waiting on his judgement.
One by one, they dine together.
His formidable eyes narrow.
Princess Cecelia of Crosses
Drinks merlot
From a jeweled carafe
Until she slumps,
Her burgundy
Ringlets
Spill like snakes
On the plate
Of foie gras.
She drunkenly rules
The saintly land,
Shouting orders at the staff.
Princess Lengua of Anthros
Sits mute, despite speaking
One hundred languages,
Refusing to whisper one word.
She carelessly rules
The cultured land,
Uninterested in others.
Princess Intella of Collegia
Snubs reading books,
Despite her homeland
Of Renowned inventors
And theorists alike.
She lazily rules
The scholarly land,
Dismissing education.
One fateful day
From a tumultuous,
Thunderous rainstorm,
Appears a girl, Zeta.
Bereft of large jewels
Or a gold crown,
But presents well
In modest gingham dress,
Calm demeanor,
And clear green eyes.
She is tired and drenched,
Falsely identifying
As a foreign princess
Of an intuitive land.
The prince’s mother,
A born skeptic and intuit,
Eyes the wet girl.
The land she speaks of
May be just a myth.
She commands the girl,
“If you’re so brilliant
And of oracle descent
Recite our spiritual rhetoric
Of ancient language past.”
Zeta, a novice but natural intuit,
Inherited gifts from her mother,
Watching her aid the poor
In difficult spiritual pursuits.
She’s heard the texts before,
Yet now the words evade her.
Bright eyed and a vivid dreamer,
Zeta bravely knows a way,
Devoting countless days,
Whispering complex incantations
And meditating
On the foreign scripts.
On the first day of summer,
She emerges confidently as
A slew of words spill
In front of the three
And strong winds whip
Throughout the castle.
The prince and queen
Sit, mouths agape.
Zeta is the right and valid
Princess for whom
They have searched,
And place the crown atop
Her modest head.
Finally, the prince decides
And takes her by the hand
Zeta promises herself
Never to retell the story
Of her ordinary and wet
Unnoble past.